


Look at the wonderful mess that we made

by sapphirescribe



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Accidental Knotting, Alternate Universe - College/University, Established Relationship, M/M, Marking, Mates, POV Derek Hale, Teen Wolf Remix 2014, Werewolves exist, eye color doesn't mean the same thing as in canon, sex bruises, unintentional but unapologetic shmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-06
Updated: 2014-04-06
Packaged: 2018-01-15 12:40:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1305178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphirescribe/pseuds/sapphirescribe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things are going great with Stiles, better than Derek could ever have imagined, so naturally that's when shit happens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Look at the wonderful mess that we made

**Author's Note:**

  * For [StarAmongStones](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarAmongStones/gifts).
  * Inspired by [wake with coffee in the morning](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1107654) by [StarAmongStones](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarAmongStones/pseuds/StarAmongStones). 



> Set after the story it's remixing. It's not necessary to read the original, but as you can see from the wordcount alone, it quite inspired me. I hope you enjoy this, Star!
> 
> As always, my fics take a village. Thanks to V, M, C, and M for their help. ILY.

Retching sounds from the kitchen shake Derek out of his morning daydreams. 

"Dude, what the _fuck_?" Isaac stomps out of the kitchen, mouth open, tongue out, like he's just eaten some of Derek's tofu when he was reaching for cheese.

"What's wrong?"

"I thought we had an agreement, Derek. You aren't allowed to touch the coffee maker. Jesus, what did we ever do to you?"

Danny is leaning against the doorway, looking smug. "Where's Stiles?"

"He had to go home last night, his first final was at 8."

Derek suddenly realizes that this is the first morning in weeks that he hasn't been at Stiles' place or Stiles hasn't been at his frat house, and his face heats. He made the coffee that morning without thinking. Derek usually goes on runs in the morning before Stiles even gets up, and Stiles is a heavy sleeper, so he always gets to the coffee maker first. But Stiles has some sort of internal alarm system that wakes him when Derek comes within five feet of any coffee making apparati. He's removed Derek bodily from the kitchen on more than one occasion to stop him from "poisoning everyone with his devil's brew."

"This tastes like death, dude. Seriously."

"Oh, sorry about the coffee, man. It was a reflex."

"That's it," Isaac shouts. "I'm making a sign!"

\---

He finds Stiles in the library hours later, nearly buried under piles of books and papers. His hair is sticking up at all angles, one hand holds his glasses up so he can chew on the arm, the other rolls his pen back and forth through his fingers. He looks serious and focused, and Derek can see the lines of concentration etched across his forehead. He takes a moment to just watch.

Stiles must have a _Eureka!_ moment just then, because he shoves his glasses on his face as he leans forward, and then his hand is flying over the notebook in front of him. Derek loves watching Stiles study—it's such an active undertaking, always moving, thoughts obvious on his face as he makes connections and sees patterns. They don't study together anymore, because Derek inevitably studied Stiles instead of his textbooks. 

Stiles jumps when Derek drops into the chair next to him. "Holy—" he nearly shouts and clutches his chest. "I'm going to put a bell on you. Don't sneak up on me like that." The kiss they share is quiet and sweet and familiar and it takes Derek's breath away. He's never felt with anyone else the way he feels with Stiles. Like his skin is too tight because he's just bursting with love and at the same time he just wants to burrow underneath Stiles' skin and stay there forever.

Some days he wishes he and Stiles could hide away from the world, that they could make a nest of blankets on his bed and share each other's space and breathe each other's air until they couldn't tell themselves apart, but were just one entity made of dreams and life and happiness. It's too soon to tell Stiles he feels like this, but he's not worried about reciprocation. Stiles couldn't hide an emotion on his face to save his life. He's pretty sure Stiles would join him in his quilt nest, he need only ask.

"God, what time is it?"

Stiles tosses his glasses on the textbook in front of him and rubs his eyes. He must've been here for hours already.

"Nearly seven. When was the last time you ate?"

"I found one of your protein bars in my backpack around... noon?" He leans back to stretch, popping his vertebrae and letting out a satisfied little hum. Derek's eyes are immediately drawn to the exposed skin of his belly as his shirt rides up, and he can't stop from reaching out and touching. His hand covers nearly all of the exposed skin and Stiles hunches in quickly, as if expecting his stretch to be ruined by a surprise tickle fight in the middle of the library. But Derek just rests his hand on the warm skin of Stiles' stomach, lets himself feel Stiles moving and breathing, and slowly feels his own breathing matching Stiles'.

"You okay?" Stiles whispers, and cups his hand against the back of Derek's neck.

He's not quite sure how to answer that. Sometimes he just gets a little lost in Stiles.

"I brought you dinner," he says, instead of something sappy and incriminating.

He's saved from further questioning by the gurgle of Stiles' stomach at the mention of dinner and the gleam in his eyes when Derek pulls a plastic container from his bag.

It's just leftovers from his own dinner, but he's gotten used to cooking for two, and he couldn't bring himself to save it for later, knowing Stiles was likely subsisting on backpack peanuts and lukewarm library water. He puts the container on the table in front of Stiles, along with a plastic fork, and rests his arm over Stiles' shoulder.

"You _made_ me dinner? Dude, I don't even care that it's probably quinoa and tofu and steamed broccoli. You made me dinner. You are the best provider ever, seriously." It's at least partly a joke, but he can't help the flush that comes over him at the thought of providing for Stiles. 

"It's chicken."

"No tofu?"

"No tofu."

Stiles turns his head and bites down lightly on the side of Derek's palm, an affectionate gesture that would be weird from anyone else. "Thank you," he says sincerely.

Unfortunately, Derek can't stay with Stiles at the library the rest of the night. He has a paper to write and Stiles has to study, so he leaves shortly after Stiles finishes eating.

\---

He's not even halfway home when the hair on the back of his neck stands up. Pulling out his earbuds, he turns, but campus is nearly empty. It's finals week, so everyone is locked inside somewhere writing or studying, depriving themselves of sleep and pounding coffee and Red Bull in the hopes that it'll earn them a higher letter grade. There's no one within a hundred yards of him, much less anyone who looks like they give a shit about another senior walking across campus.

Turning off his music, he wraps the headphone cord around his phone and reaches across his body to his bag to put it away when he hears the stampede of feet coming closer... _fast_.

A huge _thing_ slams into him from behind, knocking him clean off his feet and tumbling over him, rolling him until he lands flat on his ass. The thing flipped over him as he tumbled, so now Derek finds himself face to face with a creature from the very depths of his nightmares. Sharp teeth, dripping with saliva that causes them to glint and shine in the moonlight, growls and snarls emanating from deep within its huge chest, and eyes that burn red in the darkness.

It's vaguely canine, and yet, like no dog he's ever seen before. It's rabid or feral but Derek doesn't have time to investigate, just crawls backwards, trying to get away, to find something he can use as a weapon, some way to evade or defend, but there's nothing. The dog takes a few, slow, menacing steps forward, growling the whole time, and Derek doesn't want to put his back to it, but he's not getting away fast enough, so he scrambles onto his hands and knees. He's halfway up, in a low crouch and ready to run, when the creature jumps forward and sinks its teeth into the flesh at his side.

The pain is instantaneous and overwhelming. His screams permeate the quiet night air, but there's no one around to hear. There's a brief reprieve as he falls and the beast can't keep hold of him, but he can't move except to roll on the ground in the fetal position, clutching at his side. He pushes off the ground again, but the thing darts toward him and snaps its jaws around the already-bleeding wound in Derek's side, and this time starts to drag him off toward the trees.

Fuck. Fucking _fuck_. No. This thing is going to eat him alive. No, no, no. He refuses to accept death by rabid fucking dog. Despite the blood loss, his adrenaline is finally pumping and he kicks as hard as he can over and over and over again, trying to knock the legs out from under it. As if by reflex, he punches the wolf-dog right in the eye, and that seems to surprise it enough to get it to let go. Derek rolls and manages to kick it across the nose as he does.

There's a burst of light from one of the buildings and a group of students walk out, laughing and joking. When Derek looks back into the trees, the thing is gone.

He realizes he's been laying in one place, bleeding out on the forest floor, for far longer than is safe— _ha!_ —and scrambles to his feet. Then, he _runs_.

\---

Derek wakes the next morning to the scent of Stiles on his sheets, as if he'd only just left his bed. He buries his nose into his pillow and takes a deep whiff, but gets quickly distracted. Danny must be smashing his fists on his keyboard for all the noise he's making. It sounds like the coffee maker is beeping through a fucking megaphone. James is jerking off so loud down the hall he might as well be doing it in Derek's face. The blaring of his alarm clock shocks the shit out of him, and he chucks it across the room, where it smashes against the door, breaking apart before it even hits the ground.

The house is silent for a moment and Derek sighs in relief. It's short-lived, though, because on his next breath everything starts back up again, like a record that's slow to start spinning.

Moments later, he hears James shuffling down the hall, neck cracking as he stretches and yawns. The pounding on his door that follows reverberates in his skull, and he claps his hands over his ears, like that's going to protect him.

On his way to the door he dry swallows a pill from the Z-Pak the ER doctor gave him the night before. It tastes foul.

The burst of air that blows into the room when Derek opens the door makes him choke. It smells of body odor, lotion, and enough semen that James should be worried about hydration.

"Jesus, how many times have you jacked off already today? You fucking reek."

James is visibly taken aback. He's not embarrassed; when you live in a house with a bunch of other twenty-something frat boys, sex and sex-talk is more than common. But Derek rarely participates, and never in such an antagonistic manner.

"Sorry, bro. I heard a crash in here earlier and I was just checking to see if you were okay. I'll leave you be." He backs away with his hands held up in the air.

"Sorry. Weird morning." _Understatement_.

As he twists away to shut the door, the skin at his side pulls uncomfortably and he's abruptly reminded of the night before. That _thing_ coming at him in the dark. Running. Snarling, snapping, falling, the searing pain of sharp teeth clamping around his side, and _running_. And what the fuck was it? His instincts are screaming _wolf_ , but there aren't any wolves in California, as far as he knows. Though there's no way it was a rabid Husky either.

Stripping off his shirt pulls at his side as well, and he's staggered to see not the gaping flesh wound he expected, but a scabbed-over bite that looks days— _not hours_ —old. And suddenly, it's all too much. He still smells James' semen in the doorway, but he also smells his own laundry, which hadn't smelled that rank yesterday, the coffee's done downstairs, and Danny and Isaac are laughing about the sign Isaac made for the coffee maker. The shower turns on down the hall, someone cranks their stereo up, and then someone else slams the door when they leave, and it's _too much_.

Derek bursts out of his room and flies down the hall. Someone's calling his name, but he can't tell why or what they want. He feels out of breath, but his heart beat is steady. The fresh, open air helps to clear his senses, but he doesn't pause, just keeps running. He wishes he could've run this fast last night, maybe he could've gotten away, and he forces his legs to move faster. 

He reaches Stiles' building without realizing that's where he'd been headed, and catches the door when a frazzled-looking girl bursts out, muttering calculus equations to herself. He still has excess energy to burn, so he runs the six flights of stairs to Stiles' apartment.

The apartment is empty, but Derek burrows under Stiles' blankets and sandwiches his head between his pillows. It's blessedly quiet, and all he can smell now is Stiles' scent mingled in with his own. He takes several deep breaths, and feels his heart rate slow, his muscles start to relax, and the tension he's been carrying since he woke up just flows away.

\---

When he wakes for the second time, it's because someone has removed the pillow from over his face and he gets a whiff of air that's like Stiles, but not. But he opens his eyes and Stiles is smiling at him, a shy, quiet smile that Derek likes to think is just for him.

"Hey, you okay?"

"Better now you're here," Derek says, and pulls Stiles onto the bed. They kiss, long and slow, and Stiles' tongue is like a burst of want on Derek's. He doesn't taste different, just _more_ , somehow.

Stiles breaks away with a series of light pecks against Derek's lips, but Derek doesn't let him pull away, just pulls him closer so he can bury his face in Stiles' neck and drink him in. Taking a deep breath, he smells grass and detergent and Scott and a dozen other scents he can't even begin to place and it tickles his nose.

He sneezes.

Stiles jumps.

"Dude, did you just sneeze on me?"

"You smell weird."

Now that he's thinking about it, the whole apartment smells. He can tell there's a dirty dish under Stiles' bed, he can smell milk souring in the fridge, and that Isaac and Scott had sex within the last few hours—though thankfully not in Stiles' room. There's a faucet in the bathroom that isn't shut off all the way but is slowly drip, drip, dripping onto the porcelain below. Someone across the hall is knocking on a door asking to be let in.

He closes his eyes and tries to shut it all out. He doesn't know what's wrong with him, but this isn't natural. Something drew him to Stiles earlier, but now he has to get away, get somewhere quiet and safe.

But then Stiles is pulling off his shirt and climbing under the covers with him. Just as suddenly as the need to leave came over him, it's gone. Stiles' heartbeat thumps in his ears as he crawls atop Derek's waist and sits. Stiles' long, lean fingers trace patterns up his torso, pausing and skidding over the marks on Derek's side. 

"Hey, what happened here?" Stiles' fingers trace the edges of the raised, pink bite on Derek's side.

Derek looks down, watches as Stiles touches each mark from the teeth of the beast that had bitten him. He wants to answer but can't find the words. Stiles is so _warm_. Derek would swear he can feel Stiles' life's blood pumping through his veins, see his pulse beat at his throat.

Sitting up, he pulls Stiles' even closer and buries his nose in the skin of Stiles' throat again. He opens his mouth and licks a line along Stiles' neck, from his clavicle up across his shoulder, before closing his mouth on the skin and biting down. Part of him wants to eat Stiles up, consume him until they're one and the same.

Stiles is making noises, talking to him, he thinks, but it's all jibberish, nothing he can process. The sound of Stiles' voice is welcome, though. He wants Stiles' voice and heartbeat in his head all the time.

He flips them with ease, pressing Stiles into the mattress. With one hand, he pins Stiles' wrists together above his head, and the other tears at his shorts. He needs to taste where Stiles' scent is concentrated, needs to mark Stiles everywhere that matters. He noses at Stiles' armpit and frowns, fighting the urge to spit, when all he tastes are the harsh chemicals of deodorant. He nips and bites his way down Stiles' side, and Stiles' heart goes wild, hummingbird-fast.

When he gets down to Stiles' dick, he's already hard and flushed and leaking. Derek licks up the precome on his belly before moving lower. He licks and sucks at Stiles' dick, his balls, the creases of his body where legs and torso meet, lower. Stiles' heartbeat thumps under his tongue even here, and that combined with the intensity of his scent drives Derek to distraction.

Stiles' fingers card through his hair, but he doesn't want that, _no_ —he wants Stiles pinned beneath him, immobile. He lurches up and grabs Stiles' wrists again, and presses them into the pillow. Later, he won't remember opening the lube or slicking either of them up, he won't remember the half-smothered cries and moans Stiles lets out, he won't remember pushing too hard or moving too fast. All he'll remember is the taste of Stiles' skin under his tongue, the way Stiles bared his neck, presenting it to Derek like a gift, the way Stiles' body pushed up against his, encouraging them higher and higher.

It's all a blur. All he hears is Stiles. All he sees and smells and _knows_ is _Stiles_. And it's all that matters.

After lying in bed for far too long—and not long enough—Stiles gets up and pulls on a pair of boxers, then glances around the room.

"Did you come here wearing only these?" Stiles asks with a smirk, picking up Derek's torn boxer briefs from the floor.

Derek looks down and blinks. He's naked now, obviously, and he just... "Umm... I— I don't know." He honestly can't remember. "Maybe? I guess so?" There was James at the door and then everything got loud and smelly and he had to get somewhere safe. And then he was just _here_.

"Aw, babe, as sweet as it is that you wanted to see me that bad, maybe next time don't let the rest of campus get a look at the goods," Stiles jokes, but it's half-hearted and he seems a little distracted.

Fortunately, they've spent nights at each other's place enough times that Derek has some clothes here. Enough that he can make it back across campus without drawing more attention than he must have on the way over, at least. He pulls on a pair of shorts, but as Stiles is reaching into his dresser drawer for a shirt, he sees the blooming bruises on Stiles' wrists.

"What the fuck is this from?" He's out of bed in the space of a heartbeat, crowding Stiles against the dresser and holding his arm up between them. How he could have missed the bruises before, he doesn't know, but _fuck_ , someone is going to pay for this.

"What are you talking about?" Stiles looks genuinely confused, and his gaze makes a circuit from his marred arm, to Derek, to the pillow and back to Derek, like it's obvious.

And a moment later, it is obvious. Painfully so. He drops Stiles' arm like it's burned him. No. He can't be responsible for hurting Stiles. Guilt wells up in his throat and he can't breathe for it choking him. He didn't even realize he was gripping so tightly or pushing so hard against Stiles that he was rupturing his fucking blood vessels.

"No." It comes out as barely a croak.

"Derek, it's fine."

" _No_."

"Derek, will you look at me?"

He looks up, but all he can see are the deepening black and blue rings around Stiles' wrists, like he'd been handcuffed against his will. And, _fuck_ , he _had_. Derek hadn't known his own strength, but he'd used it against Stiles. And then he sees the other marks. Finger marks, teeth marks, littered across Stiles' torso like the night sky in reverse. His neck is a mess of red and blue, and Derek cannot _believe_ he's responsible for this.

Brushing his way past Stiles, he's surprised to see Scott talking to a guy from maintenance who's working on the door to the apartment. The wood is fractured and splintered where the metal has been ripped from the door jamb, as if the door had been shoved open by force.

He's going to vomit.

\---

His feet carry him across the mall and past the library to the trees that line the edge of campus. He's not sure how he does it, but he finds the exact spot where that _thing_ had attacked him last night. A torn scrap of the shirt he'd been wearing lies discarded, as confirmation of his presence. There's splayed grass and displaced dirt where it knocked him back and dragged him farther under cover of trees. Blood stains the ground where he'd lain even for just those few moments while he caught his breath before he ran.

The reflection of sunlight on glass catches his eye, and he digs his phone out of a pile of crushed leaves. Until now, he hadn't even realized he'd lost it. The screen is shattered and the battery dead, the headphones inexorably knotted. As he pockets the phone, he looks down at himself. He's barefoot, bare-chested. Again. At least this time he'd been running around in shorts, rather than just his underwear.

Absently, he runs his fingertips over the bite mark on his side. It's healed even further since he first woke up that morning. It'll be gone by nightfall. 

He looks back at the blood on the ground and sighs deeply. 

He can tell in which direction the animal trotted off, and while he's curious, his sense of self-preservation is thankfully stronger. He can smell its fetid breath on the air, like blood and dead animals. Picking up the scrap of shirt, he brings it to his nose. It's disconcerting—he can smell himself and the other animal, but he doesn't understand why.

All he knows now is that he smells the animal in himself.

\---

Back at the house he ignores the cat-calls from the living room and barricades himself in his room. Everyone respects the privacy of a locked door, but he wedges his desk chair under the doorknob just in case.

He has no idea how to start researching something like this, but he opens up his laptop and settles in for a long afternoon.

Hours later, in the depths of some obscure internet forum, and somewhere between realizing that he'd run miles that day without breaking a sweat and remembering the possessive marks he'd left on Stiles' skin, Derek stumbles across the word _werewolf_ and freezes. He sees the red eyes and gleaming teeth of the wolf—fuck, it was a wolf—that bit him, and fuck everything in his life, he does _not_ want to become that.

Fear and anxiety well up in his chest, his skin feels too tight, like one false move and he might burst right out of it. His mouth feels funny, too full, and his breath is coming in harsh gasps. He's never had a panic attack, but he thinks this might be what it feels like. The urge to run is strong. But this time he doesn't want to run to Stiles, he wants to run _away_. Run until his muscles burn. Run until he can't feel this desperation in his chest, this pit of worry in his stomach. Run until he doesn't recognize where he is anymore.

Pushing his laptop off his lap, he shoots out of bed and catches sight of his reflection in the mirror above his dresser.

 _Holy fuck_.

Wrinkled forehead, pointed ears, fangs, and eyes flashing electric blue stare back at him. That can't be him. He reaches up to touch his forehead, to verify that the thing looking at him in the mirror is really him and not some horrible optical illusion, and nearly scratches his own eye out with the clawed hand that appears before him.

He's sure as hell not going anywhere looking like this.

\---

Eventually, he manages to shift back to normal. It takes the better part of a half hour and all of the deep breathing exercises he can find on the internet, without poking holes in his keyboard with his claws. (Fucking _claws_ , really?)

He doesn't have high hopes for his mangled phone, but he plugs it in anyway just in case. To his surprise, after a few moments, it actually recognizes the charger and boots up. There's a message waiting from Stiles that he can just make out through the shattered screen: _We need to talk_.

 _I don't think that's a good idea_ , he responds.

_I realize how that sounds, but I'm not breaking up with you._

Derek stares at his phone.

_And if you want to break up with me you could at least do it to my face._

Derek doesn't know a lot right now, but he knows he still wants Stiles. Without thought, he dials. "I don't want to break up with you," he says as soon as Stiles answers the phone.

"Right answer."

"Stiles, I— I just don't think right now is the best time."

"What if I told you I think I can help? I know you're going through something, Derek. You're not that sneaky. But just talk to me. Tell me what's going on. We can figure it out."

It's good that Stiles doesn't give him a lot of time to respond, because Derek doesn't know what to say.

"That's the spirit, big guy. My last final is in, like, twenty minutes and then I'm coming over. So finish up your shit because I'm not leaving 'til we handle this."

\---

This is a bad idea. He's going to scare Stiles. Worse, he's going to hurt Stiles. Fuck, he's _already_ hurt Stiles. But that time at least he didn't have claws and fucking _fangs_. He's not a werewolf. He can't be a werewolf. God, maybe he could deal with this bullshit if he had Stiles to lean on, but Stiles is going to take one look at his disfigured face, see the jagged edges of his disgusting, moldy-looking claws, and Stiles is going to leave him.

The worst part of it? Derek wouldn't even blame him.

Stiles texts him again when his final is done and he's on his way over. Derek moved the chair from under the door and unlocked it after their earlier conversation, but he's reconsidering the intelligence of that decision now. He's been pacing around his room for the last two and a half hours, working himself up over the whole thing. Catching sight of himself in the mirror again, he growls at his reflection, disgusted. He swipes a clawed hand across it, knocking it off the wall. It shatters on impact, spraying mirrored glass across his floor.

The door flies open half a second later, and a breathless Stiles bursts inside, rushing to Derek's side.

"Shit, are you okay? I heard breaking glass. What happened?"

"Get back, Stiles!" Derek shouts, and whips around to push Stiles away. Stiles can't see him like this, he _can't_. Derek isn't ready for this to be over, and it will be as soon as Stiles sees him.

The sharp tang of fresh blood hits his nose and he looks up to see Stiles clutching his forearm, blood slowly seeping between his fingers.

 _No_.

"Stiles," he breathes, horrified. He looks down at his hands and can see a trickle of blood on the tips of the claws of his left hand. 

Torn between going to Stiles to make sure he's okay, and running the fuck away so he can never hurt Stiles again, his legs refuse to move.

Stiles, meanwhile, is slowly moving towards the door, at once confirming all of Derek's suspicions. He never turns his back to Derek, but reaches out and shuts and locks the door. From the inside.

"Derek," he says, in a low, even voice. "I need you to just hang on for another minute for me, okay?"

Derek cocks his head in confusion. Why is Stiles talking to him like he's the one who's going to run? Stiles should be running.

He reaches into Derek's laundry basket at the edge of the closet and pulls out an old t-shirt. Wrapping it around his injured arm causes Stiles to wince, but it also masks some of the blood scent in the air, allowing Derek to breathe a little easier.

Stiles slowly approaches him, hands held in the air, level with his shoulders, palms facing Derek, like he's approaching a skittish wild animal. Oh.

Derek starts to growl when Stiles gets close enough to touch.

"Really, Derek?" Stiles glares at him, and Derek feels the growl burn out in his chest. He breaks the eye contact and looks down at the ground. With everything in him, he senses Stiles drawing closer, he wants to move and can't, and then Stiles is touching his shoulder, wrapping his hand around the back of Derek's neck, and every muscle in Derek's body relaxes.

Stiles catches him before he falls into a puddle on the ground, and guides Derek to his bed, still gently pressing his palm against the side of Derek's neck, his fingers curved around the back.

He reaches for Stiles' waist as Stiles climbs on his lap. He doesn't understand why Stiles is still here, but he can't push him away either, and instead buries his face in Stiles' chest.

Stiles' other hand cards through Derek's hair, rubbing soothing patterns against his scalp. For the first time since leaving Stiles' apartment earlier that morning, he's calm. He feels safe in Stiles' arms, and that's a ridiculous thought, but Stiles smells like comfort and home and, actually, like _him_.

"You okay there?" Stiles asks after some time has passed. He doesn't pull away, so Derek feels the rumble of his voice in his chest.

He nods, and starts nosing his way across Stiles' chest.

"Can we talk about this now?" 

He shakes his head. "Don't wanna," he says into Stiles' armpit. Stiles moves to rest his forehead by his hand around the back of Derek's neck, then sinks his teeth into the meat of Derek's shoulder. 

"Okay, big guy. How about I talk and you listen. Does that work for you?"

He nods again, and feels Stiles take a deep breath.

"My mom was a werewolf. She and I spent a lot of time together when I was younger. Mom was home-schooled when she was growing up—it was kind of traditional for her family—so she home-schooled me until middle school. There was a nature preserve near our house, and she'd take me for long walks through the woods, teaching me about plants and trees, but also about her pull to the earth and the magic and mystery of nature.

"Her family would come visit every month and we'd have bonfires in the back yard and they'd go running through the preserve, howling and laughing. I spent that time with my dad mostly. He worked a lot, but those nights were special so he was always home for them. I would toast marshmallows and make myself sick eating s'mores while he cooked huge amounts of food for them to eat when they got back.

"I was six when I first learned that not everyone's mom could turn into a giant wolf at will. Mom and dad always told me that I had to keep it secret that mom and her family were werewolves, but I was fucking six, I didn't know what that meant. And when Scott told me his mom _never ever turned into a wolf, no matter how mad she got_ we just stared at each other like the other one was the craziest person we'd ever met. Fortunately we were six and the sandbox was way more interesting, so it didn't really cause any issues."

Stiles takes a deep breath.

"After my mom died, we were still part of her family's pack, but it was really hard on my dad to have them around all the time. Eventually, they moved on, and I think that was better for my dad, but I missed them. I mean, I missed everything about my mom, but that was something that she had that was special, you know? It was especially hard to let go of."

Stiles ghosts his fingers down Derek's side and squeezes where the bite mark used to be. It tickles a little, and Derek flinches.

"So... when did you get bitten?" Stiles asks, pushing away from Derek and tipping his head up, forcing eye contact.

"Last night, after I left the library," Derek replies on a quiet exhale.

"Why didn't you call me?" Stiles asks quietly.

Derek shrugs.

"How did you figure it out?" There are roughly a thousand questions swirling about in his brain, but that's the only one Derek can voice at the moment.

"Dude, my mom was an overprotective alpha werewolf, she taught me one or two things about identifying them. Plus, you didn't really do anything to hide it—you didn't even know there was something to hide. There were claw marks on the doorframe of the apartment, you were really focused on scenting me while we were fucking, and your eyes kept flashing blue. Might've seemed like a trick of the light to someone else, but I know."

Stiles' distracted look and the bruises around his neck and wrists start to take on a whole new meaning. Derek still can't believe he hurt Stiles like that, werewolf or no, and starts to say as much before Stiles interrupts him.

"I'm not afraid of you. It doesn't matter that something's changed, because you're a good man on the inside and I know you would never intentionally hurt me."

"I hurt you here," Derek says and pokes Stiles injured arm.

"That was an accident, I startled you. The same thing could've happened if I'd been a second later and you'd started picking up the pieces of the broken mirror."

Derek finally gives voice to the thought that's been choking him with fear for hours. "Why would you want to be with someone like this?" The _with me_ remains unspoken.

"Are you insinuating there was something wrong with my mom?"

"No, Stiles, I—"

"Then why would there be something wrong with you?" He gives Derek a pointed glare. "Derek, if you need time and space to figure this out and get used to being a werewolf, that's fine, and I will completely understand and let you have your space. I get that this is incredibly stressful, not to mention the psychological impact of getting bitten without your consent, but don't put that on me. I'm telling you point blank that I want to be here with you. I can help you with this, and I want to. I want _you_.

"My dad was a cop and my mom was a hippie, and no one understood how they worked, but they did. We had moon cycle charts on the fridge, right next to used targets from the firing range.  
My dad operated by-the-book, and my mom by her heart, and on paper they didn't make sense, but they would have moved the earth and stars for each other. 

"I know it sounds crazy, Derek, but this doesn't have to be a bad thing. My mom said she was terrified dad was going to leave her when she told him she was a werewolf, but he recognized that it didn't actually change who she was or how he felt about her. He loved her anyway."

The words all sound good but it doesn't make sense. Derek can't take the eye contact any more and looks away. Looks at the black and blue marks peeking through the collar of Stiles' shirt, looks at the blood that's seeped through his shirt wrapped around Stiles' arm, looks at the bruises still on Stiles' wrists. All injuries that Stiles _wouldn't have_ if not for Derek.

"No," Derek finally says. "I can't do this. I can't be responsible for hurting you over and over again."

Stiles levers himself out of Derek's lap and settles himself on the middle of the bed. They're not touching anymore and that feels... _wrong_. 

"Derek," Stiles says, and his tone makes Derek's eyes snap back up to his. "You've been a werewolf for less than twenty-four hours. You didn't even know they existed until a few hours ago. How could you possibly expect to know how to control it? You just need someone who knows what they're dealing with to help you learn to handle it, to make it through the full moons, to control the shift. If you know someone else who can do that, be my guest. But let me tell you, the Internet is _not_ your friend when it comes to this stuff, dude. There's a lot of weird shit on the Internet about werewolves and only like twenty-five percent of it is true, and it's never the stuff you'd expect."

Derek moves so he's facing Stiles again, and realizes the shirt Stiles is wearing is his. Derek's. Stiles is wearing Derek's shirt, even though it doesn't fit him and it's plain and Stiles never wears his shirts out of his apartment.

In another classic display of Stiles' intuition, he looks down at the shirt as if sensing Derek's question.

"Scent is important."

Unconsciously, Derek takes a deep breath. There are too many smells for him to distinguish, but above them all is the combined scent of _StilesandDerek_. 

"I changed after my final. I didn't want to come here and overwhelm you with the smell of a hundred anxious psych majors fresh off a final they weren't prepared for."

"How did you—?"

"I told you, Derek. I grew up with this. I get it. I may not have dealt with it recently, but it's in my blood. This is what I mean when I say I can help."

Derek's still not sure if Stiles is making the right decision, but in that minute, Derek knows he needs Stiles. How he ever doubted that for even a split second, he'll never know. But Stiles is right—Derek needs him. And not just for the werewolf stuff, for everything.

Acting on instinct alone, Derek pounces. He tackles Stiles so that every inch of their bodies are pressed together, and he buries his face in Stiles' neck.

This time, when he breathes in, he's aware of what he's smelling: pack. His scent and Stiles' are so commingled, they're barely distinguishable. He rubs his cheek against Stiles' and his resultant giggle is the best thing Derek has heard all day.

Stiles captures Derek's face between his hands and pulls him in. Derek couldn't resist if he tried, but why the hell would he want to? 

Kissing Stiles is a hundred times better than before. Not only is his taste sharper, but Derek can _smell_ how it makes Stiles feel. They kiss for long moments, rolling one another over and taking turns pinning each other to the mattress. Stiles peels his shirt off at one point and the feel of skin on skin takes Derek's breath away.

\---

"Wanna see the coolest thing about being a werewolf?" Stiles asks much later, when their mouths are dry and lips swollen from kissing. "Well, I always thought it was the coolest because I was always falling over and scraping my knees and getting hurt. You've got the grace of a gazelle, so it'll probably be far less useful to you."

"What's the coolest thing about being a werewolf, Stiles?" Derek asks, humoring him.

"Do you trust me?" Stiles asks, pulling a switchblade out of his backpack.

Stiles' heartbeat is steady and sure. That alone gives Derek the courage to answer.

"Yes."

Stiles clicks the button on his switchblade so the knife flicks out. The moonlight gleaming off the edge of the blade makes it look especially sharp.

"Breathe for me. Remember that you're stronger than you think. This is going to hurt, but I promise it'll be worth it."

He holds Derek's outstretched arm by the wrist and slowly lowers the tip of the knife to the sensitive skin just below his elbow. The blade is sharp, and Stiles presses only hard enough to break the skin and cut a half-inch slice into Derek's forearm.

It stings, but it's not unbearable. And as Derek watches a slow trickle of blood drip down his forearm, nearly tracing the veins going the same direction, the pain diminishes. He looks back up towards his elbow and the cut is gone. If not for the fresh blood darkening his skin, he'd never have known he was injured.

\---

Stiles and Derek stay sequestered in Derek's room all of the next day, only leaving for bathroom breaks and food. Stiles has Derek focus on each of his housemates one at a time, listening in on what they're doing, trying to identify each movement and what it means, and then blocking it out. _Mom always said learning to ignore was just as important as learning to listen._

He finds YouTube videos of Iyengar and restorative yoga, forcing Derek to focus on his breathing, his heart rate, the movement of his limbs, his center. _Your anchor is what keeps you human. It can be a person or a memory, but you can be your own anchor._

Later that evening, when the sun is low enough to shine directly into their eyes through Derek's bedroom window, Stiles pulls Derek up off the floor and down to his car. They drive west for about an hour, windows down, enjoying the fresh, cool evening air. Derek focuses on shutting down his senses—there are too many smells and sounds for him to pick any one out at this speed, so he keeps it in the car, listening for Stiles' heartbeat and enjoying their mingled scents swirling around him.

Stiles pulls off the road onto an abandoned-looking side road, and then pulls off that to park in the trees. His car is hidden from view, and Derek gives him a questioning look.

"The park closes at sunset, and we need to be in a place without other people for this."

It's a good thing Stiles has his hand as they walk deeper into the woods, because Derek is too busy listening to the cacophony of nature around him that he's never noticed before. He's tracking a bird as it flits through the trees, when Stiles stops and squeezes his hand to get his attention.

"What I want you to do now, is very simple: run."

"That's it?"

Stiles nods.

"Why couldn't we use the track for this? Why can't there be people around?"

"Because I don't want you to run like a human. You need to learn your strength and your speed. You need to let your instincts guide you, and not let your human side hold you back. When you let yourself go and run on instinct rather than practice, you'll understand why we couldn't do this on the track at school.

"Don't worry about me, I've got provisions," he says, patting his backpack, "you just run as long as you like. And come back here to me when you're done."

"Uhh—how will I find you?"

"Don't think too hard. You will," he says with a wink, and taps his nose.

When Derek hesitates, he gives Derek a look that says _well, what are you waiting for?_ and Derek has no idea. He's trusted Stiles so far, so why not now?

Turning away from Stiles, he takes off at a slow jog, trying to memorize the trees and rocks and fallen logs so he'll be able to find his way back. It's not long before he can't see Stiles when he turns anymore, but he tries to put his worry for Stiles out of his mind.

He hears Stiles' voice on the wind, "I told you to run, Derek. _Run_." There's no way he should be able to hear Stiles now, and yet… maybe there is something to be said for testing his new senses.

Picking up his pace, he hits a comfortable stride, then sprints like he would in a race to home plate. But it's more than a sprint, he holds the pace for long minutes, and he should be winded and gasping for breath, but he just feels stronger, and he _knows_ he can go faster.

There's a stream ahead—he can hear it gurgling and smell the clean water—and he launches himself over it, blowing the landing and scrabbling on all fours on the opposite bank, but then he's off again. Running like this should be awkward and uncomfortable, but he can cover twice the distance in the same amount of time with his hands pulling him and legs propelling him forward. He jumps and snaps at a bird that's flying too low, and he's never felt so _free_.

When he trips over a fallen log because the hoot of an owl overhead distracts him, he laughs. The sound is lost in the night, and he suddenly realizes just how dark it is and wonders just how late it is. Stiles is probably starving.

 _Stiles_.

Turning back the way he came, he follows his own scent as it weaves through the woods, and is quickly surprised by how far he's gone. When he gets back to the spot he left Stiles—he _knows_ it's the spot, he can smell it, he can see Stiles' footprints tracking in circles on the ground—he's gone.

Panic wells in his chest at the same time he starts to analyze the situation. There's no sign of struggle, no unrecognizable footprints, nothing to smell aside from the woods and Stiles. Thankfully, the panic recedes as fast as it came. This feels like a game. He knew it was going to be a test, he just wasn't expecting _this_. Though, he supposes that's the point of a test.

All of his senses have heightened since the bite, but his sense of smell is the most instinctual to understand and use. Derek barely has to think before he knows which way Stiles has gone. Following Stiles' scent through the woods is maddening. There are false trails, times when Stiles has clearly moved and doubled back. When Derek finds his shirt draped over a low-hanging branch, his brings it to his nose and inhales deeply. There's no blood or lingering fear in the air, just the smell of _Stiles_.

He picks up his pace, and almost misses the shorts bunched up under a bush as a result. Another few twists and turns, and when he pauses to inspect a balled up pair of navy boxer briefs—his, but smelling so strongly of Stiles it makes him want to roll around in it—he realizes he can finally _hear_ Stiles as well.

Stiles' heart rate is accelerated, as is his breathing. There's a slow, slick noise that Derek recognizes but can't quite place, until he hears the accompanying moan of Derek's name and realizes Stiles is jacking off in the middle of the woods.

He moves on pure instinct now, scent and sound guiding him to exactly where he needs to be. He reaches the clearing at a full sprint, but the sight of Stiles laid out on a blanket right in the center, thrusting slowly up into his fist and down onto his fingers, stops him in his tracks. 

Stiles' chest is glistening with sweat, and there's a gorgeous flush covering his torso. He's out of breath, and quietly whisper-moaning Derek's name, and it is the hottest thing Derek has ever seen.

Stiles finally notices Derek at the tree line—though Derek wouldn't be surprised if Stiles knew he was there all along—and the want in Stiles' eyes pins him to the spot. 

"Took you long enough." Stiles is probably going for snarky, but the hitch in his breath mid-sentence takes the sting away.

Derek doesn't remember telling his feet to move, but he's kneeling on the blanket next to Stiles in the space of a heartbeat and tossing aside his shirt, because he needs to feel Stiles' skin on his own like he needs air to breathe. His mouth is on Stiles' a moment later, while Stiles fumbles with the button and zipper on his shorts, then uses hands and feet both to remove them.

Stiles' knees fall apart at Derek's waist and he keeps thrusting his hips slowly upwards, rubbing his slick cock against Derek's. 

"Need you," he breathes into Derek's mouth, as he takes Derek's cock in hand and positions it at his entrance.

It hardly takes any pressure for Derek to get inside him, he's so perfectly open and ready. And Derek won't last long at all. He's barely built up a rhythm before it falters. But it doesn't matter, nothing matters when he's with Stiles like this, nothing but the two of them.

His hands cradle Stiles' head and shoulders, and he can't stop sniffing and licking at Stiles neck. His orgasm is building deep in his gut, he's safe and comfortable and Stiles is so pliant and _present_. Derek feels like everything inside of him—every emotion, fear, need, desire—is going to explode out through his dick. He knows Stiles can take it, Stiles always takes whatever he gives him. 

And, God, Stiles is getting tighter and tighter around his dick as he nears his own orgasm. Stiles wraps his legs around Derek's waist and locks his ankles at the small of Derek's back, pulling him in closer, tighter. His little bitten-off moans drive Derek higher and higher.

"Derek. Derek, stop," he whimpers, and Derek freezes. Before he can pull out, Stiles fists his hands in Derek's hair, holding him in place. "It's fine, just don't try to pull out."

He doesn't mean to, really, it's just a reflex in response to the words, but immediately Derek tries to move his hips back. He stops when Stiles lets out a yelp of pain.

"Apparently you have a knot now," Stiles says breathlessly.

" _What_?"

"A knot," he says, and hisses when Derek moves again. "One of the things the Internet got right."

"Like a _dog_?" Derek is faintly horrified. It would be the most absurd thing he's ever heard, if he wasn't currently stuck inside his boyfriend.

"It's fine, Derek. Promise." Stiles doesn't smell upset or hurt or angry. He's got a goofy smile on his face that says more than any words could. "My mom—"

"Please don't talk about your mom while my dick is in you."

Stiles laughs, and the vibrations run straight down to Derek's dick, still buried deep inside Stiles, and Derek feels Stiles grow even tighter. He should probably be alarmed that his dick is changing, but he just feels so fucking good inside Stiles, he can't bring himself to care. Stiles squeezes his legs tighter around Derek's waist and bites down at the juncture of Derek's neck and shoulder, and that's it, Derek feels himself coming, pulsing with it over and over again, the orgasm stronger and deeper than any he's felt before.

He trembles and spams within and around Stiles for a few moments, Stiles running his fingers through Derek's hair, keeping him grounded.

Since he can't thrust anymore like this, Derek corkscrews his hips and Stiles gasps for breath as his heartbeat stutters.

"Like that?"

"Fuck yes," Stiles breathes. "You smug bastard."

It only takes another few seconds of that and some well-placed flicks of his thumb on the underside of Stiles' dick before he's coming all over his chest and Derek's hand.

The next several minutes are passed in messy kisses and whispered words. Derek finds he's compelled to wipe Stiles' come off his belly and chest and smear it on his own skin before licking the rest off his fingers. He wants to smell like Stiles, just as he wants Stiles to smell like him. He wants the blankets, the ground, the very air around them, to know who belongs with whom. There can be no mistaking that Stiles is his, and he is Stiles' in return.

Eventually, Derek's knot diminishes and he feels himself slip out of Stiles. It's a relief in some ways, since they can rearrange their limbs into a more comfortable position. But really, he just wants to be right back inside.

Stiles manhandles him onto his side and wraps himself around Derek's back, one arm under their heads, and the other resting over his side, with his hand on Derek's chest.

"She had these books," he says quietly, "and I used to read about werewolf lore. Most of it was histories passed down through the generations, nothing formal. She wouldn't let me read the good stuff, but after she—after she died, my dad just left it all in the spare room and never went in there. I felt closer to her when I read about the wolves. I always wanted to be one, but she told me she was happy I was born human, and I believed her.

"Anyway, some of the 'grown up' books," Derek sees the air quotes out of the corner of his eye and smiles, "talked about mates and mating." 

Derek feels boneless and empty in the best way from the sex, and the even, quiet cadence of Stiles' voice is slowly lulling him to sleep. He makes a muted noise to show that he's listening, but he's fading fast.

"Wolves only knot their mates."

Stiles pauses, so Derek hums again.

"They mate for life."

Something slots into place in Derek's chest at Stiles' words. Wolves mate for life. That's okay. Good, even. He wasn't going to give Stiles up anyway. 

Stiles chuckles, then fumbles with a spare blanket, pulling it up over their heads, cocooning them in a fort of shared scent and breath.

"I'm not giving you up either."


End file.
